


Crisis in Progress

by LlampacaEatingGuppy



Series: Jack and Damian's Queerplatonic Adventures [1]
Category: Metal Fight Beyblade | Beyblade: Metal Fusion
Genre: I'm not fully sure how to tag a qpr, M/M, lots of offhandedly mentioned and implied sex, post-canon story, queerplatonic Jack/Damian, so i just tagged the two of them and nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LlampacaEatingGuppy/pseuds/LlampacaEatingGuppy
Summary: You'd think that one aromantic crisis about your best friend would be enough, but apparently for Damian Hart it isn't.
Series: Jack and Damian's Queerplatonic Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768135
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. One Day in the Life of Damian Hart

The last ten years have been good to Damian. He’d say longer-- eleven or twelve-- but the transition from HD Academy to the real world was a hard one, not that he regrets it. He has enough of those without adding every relapse in recovering some semblance of mental health.

His work playlist cuts off, replaced by an obnoxious 90s song that he’s almost embarrassed to recognize as the Spice Girls, and he rolls his eyes. Jack follows an instant later. 

“Damian, are you in here? You’ve got to see this sweater I got for the dog.”

He turns around to find Jack holding out a dog vest with little bat wings sewn onto it. “It’s not too heavy, is it?”

“Nope, light as light can be. See?” He tosses it to him. 

He catches it on instinct. “You’re lucky my hands aren’t oily. That stains, you know.”

Jack smiles, entire posture seeming to shift and loosen with him. Jack’s changed less than him-- still dramatic, still expressive, and still wild. The aesthetic he had in the Academy was as close to an awkward stage anyone would ever see him in. He’s become a master of concealing flaws with immaculate makeup over the years. Not that he’s ever looked classy. His preoccupation with art and bright colors still applies to his own body, and he can’t imagine the day that Jack would wear anything ordinary.

He has to admit, though, that Jack’s right. The wings seem mostly foam, and the entire thing weighs less than some of the winter sweaters Puppy wears.

“See? I told you so.”

“It’s cute. Good for Halloween,” he says, deciding not to give Jack the satisfaction of admitting he’s right for that comment.

It doesn’t perturb him in the slightest. “Where is our angel? I want him to try it on before my client gets here.” He’s already walking to the gated off section where Puppy stays if he’s in the garage. Jack used to keep one in his studio, too, but he wouldn’t put one in the paint shop for fear of the fumes on his tiny lungs, and Puppy cries if he’s left alone for too long. Damian’s sure that Jack misses him. He’s been buying a lot more dog stuff and looking for excuses to invade the lobby and garage now that he never gets custody of Puppy during work hours.

“Oh, there’s my darling!” he coos as he plucks Puppy from his bed. He’s not much of a puppy anymore, at ten years old. The tan around his muzzle is white now, and it makes him look even more like a decrepit old man than he had before with only his one eye and three legs. “How is the little baby? Did he miss Daddy?”

“He’s not your baby and you’re not his father.”

Jack gives him an absolutely murderous look. “Yes he is. Look--” he smooshes Puppy’s face so that their cheeks are pressed together-- “he loves me.”

Puppy does love Jack. Potentially more than he loves Damian, but he’d take that fact with him to his grave. “You’re going to smother him,” he tries to argue, despite the fact that Puppy looks happy as a clam, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he stares contentedly into nothingness.

“I am not. I’ve raised this dog for ten years just like you have, I know how to hold him.”

“ _ You _ wanted me to put him back in the dumpster I found him in and leave him there.”

“Pay no attention to him, my dearest baby. You know you’re the apple of my eye.” He turns away from him, lightly covering Puppy’s ears as if he's smart enough to know what he said. It took them two years to teach him how to sit on command, and even now he only figures out what they want him to do about half the time. “I’m going to put him in the lobby. I’m meeting someone who I’m sure would love to see him. Give me that costume back, I’ll try it on the dog while I wait for them.”

Maybe whatever rich clientele Jack’s attracted this time would enjoy seeing their decrepit dog that they never even managed to name, maybe not. But he knows that his motivation is wanting to play dress-up. His phone would doubtlessly be spammed with pictures ten minutes after Jack carries him out the door. Not that he’s any better. They had a contest to see who loved Puppy more a couple years ago, with the criteria for love being the number of pictures they had of him on their phones. Damian won.

“Don’t give him any treats. He’s on a diet, remember?”

“I can’t  _ not _ reward him for letting me put him in cute clothes.”

Jack’s laughter bounces off the garage walls, cut short by the door’s clattering echo. He turns the music down, mostly because Jack’s playlist is still connected to his bluetooth and it’s playing the Spice Girls, but also so he can hear the muffled sounds of Jack cooing at Puppy in the lobby. Jack’s at his best with Puppy, and his voice softens into something like honey. It’s soothing to listen to and always makes him smile.

Sure enough, his phone starts going off in a few minutes, and he has to mute it to keep from wanting to check the dog pictures.

* * *

He heads into the lobby when he’s done for the day, the antique pickup truck getting as much work done on it as he’s willing to for now. It’s from 1929, he’s pretty sure, but he isn’t the best with assigning ages if they don’t come with the car. Jack has big artistic plans for it, but he has to make it run and be in one piece first. 

At least with Jack’s success, they’re able to charge quite a bit, and a higher selling price means more ability to restore things that frankly are borderline unsalvageable. Jack’s commissions more than cover anything he might spend repairing things. Especially since he doesn’t really have the patience for finding ninety year old parts and usually ends up replacing the engine with modern versions. They still run, and that’s what they need to do. That’s his job. Fixing the guts and getting the canvas ready. Which on his current project, a previously dump-bound, rust-eaten truck, could mean practically rebuilding the entire exterior.

But Jack’s going to paint it after he’s done, and that paired with the antique model will make it go from trash to being fought over on auction one day. He knows they’re inanimate, but he likes to think that their projects enjoy that.

Jack’s decorated the lobby in chic shapes and sharp edges, making the doggy playpen in the corner look laughably out of place. Tyrone is at the desk with Puppy in their lap. They're about his age, a little younger, maybe, and work part time at the front desk while studying engineering in college. They brought textbooks with them during the last exam season. Trying to make sense of what he saw on the pages made his head hurt.

"Hey, man," they say, shifting Puppy to one hand so they can wave at him. "You gonna head out or wait for Jack?"

"Depends. How much longer does he have?"

"I doubt it's much longer, they've been in the back for forever. You should see the Ferrari they brought in. Sexiest car I’ve ever seen.”

_ Cars aren’t sexy, least of all an overpriced monstrosity that’s less fuel efficient than a semi.  _ He almost says it, but the last thing he needs is some rich snob overhearing that. Instead, he takes Puppy’s leash from its hanger, and Puppy’s already wiggling out of Tyrone’s arms to get to him when he turns around. “Hey, little baby, you want to go for a walk?”

The excited bouncing is all he needs for an answer, and he hooks the leash onto his collar before heading through Jack’s door. 

His workspace is like a cross between a garage and an art studio, and Damian can’t tell how he manages to never lose anything in the chaos. The Ferrari is parked in the middle, and Tyrone must have awful taste in cars because it’s the single most hideous thing he’s ever seen. At least the borderline neon orange won’t be there much longer. 

Jack’s in front of the monstrosity with two clients in his full-blown artistic customer service mode, voice smooth as silk as he talks circles around them with a smile that’s too much teeth and no warmth. 

They turn around, and the disdainful look they give him and Puppy gives him a pretty good idea why. 

“Damian,” Jack says in a voice that sounds too happy to see him and already leaves the two he’s supposed to be shmoozing in the dust. “What’s brings you here? Does the baby miss me?”

“Nah, just checking to see if I’m walking home or not.” Really, they can afford two cars, but he hates driving and they don’t live far away. 

But Jack’s already picking Puppy up to tuck him into the crook of his arm. “We’re almost done, I can give you a ride if you give me a moment.

The woman looks between him and Puppy with a disgusted expression that she doesn’t do a very good job of hiding. Jack’s smile grows more teeth.

* * *

“I,” Jack says primly as he turns the ignition, “cannot stand that woman.”

“I noticed.”

“You have no idea how tempted I was to charge her what would normally be time and a half for the way she treated you and our son.”

“Don’t be crooked.”

“Maybe I’ll just put on an extra layer of base coat. I can charge her for that and she won’t know it’s unnecessary. She deserves it; she’s a bitch,” he insists as he pulls onto the road. Puppy’s snores start to come from the backseat, already asleep.

“So are you.”

Jack gives him a look that’s hard to read in the dark. “Not that kind of a bitch. I appreciate you.”

“Dude, she’s rich and turned her nose up at a beat up rescue dog and a grease monkey. That shouldn’t surprise you by now.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The tone doesn’t leave room for argument and he lets it drop. “The bat costume looks cute. He should wear it for the trick or treaters.” 


	2. Damian Is Gravely Inconvenienced by Emotions

The morning goes as usual. Damian wakes up first, lets Puppy outside, feeds him, puts coffee on for Jack, then walks with Puppy to the shop. The weather’s nice today, but he has a dog sweater in his pocket just in case. He gets cold more easily now, as an old dog.

Tyrone’s in class this morning, meaning he’s on phone duty. He’s scheduling an estimate for a restoration job when Jack comes in-- earlier, and looking nicer, than normal. Strange combination for someone who has to down a pot of coffee to get up before nine.

He waits for him to be done before doing a slow twirl. His jacket flows with him, billowing out in the back. “How do I look? Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, and means it. The outfit’s plain by Jack’s standards, which is probably why he’s self conscious, but he loves it. Not only because it features the dark paisley shirt he picked out for him a while ago, either, though it's part of it. The main focus is a stunning light jacket with black lace trim accents that goes past his knees. Paired with his hair being down and the sparkling makeup on his face, he looks more delicate than should be possible.

Jack practically beams at him and twirls the other way. “Good. I’ve got a date today and I want to look nice.”

“What’s this one’s name?” It’s only half a joke. Jack’s dating life cycles between “nonexistent” and “significant other of the week,” and has for years. 

“Jonathan. I found him on Grindr.”

“Jonathan from Grindr. Sounds like a good time.” 

Apparently, Jonathan from Grindr is a very good time because he lasts for over a week.

* * *

The second week, Jack walks out of the bathroom in a fuzzy blue robe with his hair done and a face full of makeup. “What do you think? Does my face look good?”

He lets out an amused huff. “You say that as if I know anything about makeup.”

“I know you well enough to trust your judgement.”

He sighs. There's a bright halo of color and glitter around his eyes as far as his temples, and he did something to his face that makes his cheekbones look like they can cut glass. It's bright and loud and incredibly Jack, and that makes him like it. “You seem to be asking for my opinion a lot lately.”

“You and Jonathan seem to have similar tastes. He told me that it’s terrible trying to figure out if he’d rather I never take off that outfit you liked so much or take it off for me.”

“Wow, what a gentleman.”

“He treats me very well, thank you very much. Now what about the makeup?”

He tilts his head, giving it some thought. “I think that it’s a lot. But still pretty. You look like a classy prostitute.”

“Well hey--” he grins, but it looks more forced than it should, and he regrets not saying he likes it-- “I’m hoping to get railed, so I’ll accept classy prostitute as a good look for the night.”

“You’re staying at Jonathan’s then, I assume?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

They leave it at that. Jack comes home late the next morning exhausted but in an unusually good mood. It’s a weird combination.

Apparently one that Jack likes, because it happens more often than not by the end of the third week. It’s good that he’s finally found someone he likes; he’s complained for so long now that the situation remedying itself seemed impossible. He’s glad he’s happy, even if it feels weird to have him gone so often. Lonely, even. It seems like the only time he sees him now is at the shop and when he’s getting ready for a date.

“What do you think of this one?”

It’s a more adventurous outfit that isn’t suited for the temperature outside, with sheer sleeves and ripped up pants tight enough that Damian can’t figure out how he manages to move in them. “You know with as often as you two are screwing, you probably don’t need clothes to communicate that you want to any more.”

Jack wanes, and he regrets saying it. “I really like Jonathan, Dami. I want to look good for him.”

“You do,” he tries to backtrack, mind running a mile a minute trying to undo any damage before it starts. He’s already barely seeing Jack. He doesn’t want a fight with him. “It’s just-- you’ll freeze out there wearing that.”

He lets out a surprised noise, then smiles. All the tension in the room disintegrates with it. “I won’t. That’s what coats are for.”

“It’s a summer look. Or at least spring. Not now. It’s supposed to snow tonight, for crying out loud.”

“ _ Tch _ \--” he shakes his head and looks out the window-- “you think Jonathan and I’ll last until spring?” 

His tone has a wistfulness to it that he hasn’t heard in years, and for the first time he realizes just how much Jack meant it when he said that he really liked Jonathan. “You’ve already made it this far. What’s stopping you?”

Jack’s eyes dart around as if they can’t decide what they want to look at, smile creeping across his face. “Oh my God, we have lasted a long time for me, haven’t we? We’ve probably broken some record by now.”

They became the longest lasting couple since his last committed relationship a week ago, but he decides not to bring it up. He doubts that almost a month is an impressive milestone for most people. “Quite possibly.”

“Oh my  _ God _ !” He claps his hands in front of his face and giggles like a schoolgirl. “You’re right, Dami. I can’t let him see everything all at once. What’ll he think when it gets warm out and I’ve already shown him all my sexy summer clothes?”

“Exactly,” he agrees, and tries to ignore the pit in his chest that's trying to suffocate him.

“What do you think? The off the shoulder olive sweater? It brings out my eyes. And I think the skinny jeans that make my ass look good are clean, too.” Jack’s already walking away, stripping off his clothes as he goes. The steampunk tree tattoo on his back flashes its bright, watercolor-style rainbow of colors at him for barely an instant as he tears the last layer of shirt off just before disappearing around the corner. It’s their company’s symbol, and the only tattoo Jack has on his body.

He wonders if Jonathan would end up being the second person he’d deem worthy of that honor.

* * *

The hollowness in his chest is so prevalent now, Damian wonders how he never noticed it before. He wakes up every morning and doesn’t put on coffee and it’s there. He and Puppy walk home from work without even checking for a ride home and it’s there. Jack walks in late on a weekday in rumpled clothes and littered in hickeys and it’s there. The wrongness that he never thought he’d have to feel again.

But he is feeling it, and he hates it. 

He tries to ignore it, but it only threatens to suffocate him more. He tries to analyze it, but hasn’t cracked it yet. Not in a way that’s satisfactory, at least.

He tries to tell himself he’ll be fine. He figured this out once, and he can do it again. But damn, he’d consider selling his soul to hurry the process up.

He’s absently scrolling through the seventh website telling him things he already knows when the garage door opens. 

The garage?

Jack’s supposed to be going to a movie with Jonathan tonight, not here. He snatches his phone in an instant, desperately checking for any word from him. The last time this happened, Jack came home with a horror story and a broken wrist.

There’s nothing there, and the next thing he knows, he’s already yanking open the door to their attached garage as the heavy doors roll back closed.

Jack’s fine. Staring at him with wide green eyes and a grocery bag dangling from his arm. No tears. No blood. No broken bones. “Um, hi?”

Puppy scampers around his feet to rush to Jack, who scoops him up and twirls him around even more enthusiastically than usual. Whether that’s because he hasn’t seen him as much and misses him or it’s out of gratefulness for a break in an uncomfortable situation, Damian has no idea.

When he finally sets Puppy back down, the shock turns to quizzical and he gets the impression it was the first one. “What was all that about?”

“You mean the…?” he gestures at the doorframe, not sure how to articulate what had happened in a way that doesn't sound concerning. 

“The barging in looking like you’re about to have a heart attack, yes.”

He rubs the back of his head. “I thought you had a date with Jonathan tonight and I got… worried.”

“Oh,” he answers. “Yeah, I-- we were supposed to go out tonight, but I’m fine. I cancelled.”

He blinked. Jack cancelled? On Jonathan? “Why? Did he do something?”

He laughs. “No, no. We’re fine. I just didn’t feel like going out tonight, so I told him I thought I was coming down with something, and he told me to stay at home and rest. He’s so booked it’s not even funny right now. The last thing he wants is to try to be a bridezilla's wedding photographer while sick.”

“So you lied to him?”

“In a sense. My nose has been runny today.”

“It’s always runny this time of year.”

“He doesn’t need to know that, though, does he?” He gives him a grin that’s sharp and conniving as he squeezes past him through the door. “Are you going to help me unpack these things or not? I brought goodies.” He rattles the bag, and Puppy perks up at the word goodies. He may not be able to sort out commands, but he can recognize at least seven different words for food.

Jack slams a package of pumpkin spice muffins onto the table the moment they get to the kitchen. “These are for you.”

“You didn’t have to. I can buy my own muffins,” he tries to argue, but he’s already picking at the tape keeping the lid closed. Jack got him addicted to the damned things back when they were teens. The fact that they’re only available during one season is a travesty and the amount of them he can stomach at once should probably be concerning.

He gets a disbelieving look and an amused huff as a response. 

“You’re an ass.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Shut up.” The fact that it’s said around a mouthful of muffin doesn’t help his case.

Jack laughs and looks around. “The place seems cleaner.”

“Yeah, because I’m not having to constantly clean up after your mess.”

He doesn’t say it with any bite, no sharp edges to make it hurt, but Jack seems to flinch at it. “Sorry.”

“For what? Finally having someone important in your life? God forbid, how dare you,” he says sarcastically. 

Jack gives him a long, serious look. “You’re important to me too, you know,” he says softly, but before he can even begin to formulate an answer to that, he shifts gears, pulling more things out of the plastic bag on the kitchen table. “Hey, you want to watch a movie? It’s been forever since we’ve had a movie night. I got stuff to make popcorn.”

The whole idea of Jack ditching a movie with his own boyfriend to sit on a couch and watch what usually ends up being bad horror movies with him is… unusual, but the offer of home popped popcorn keeps questions at bay. “Kettle corn style?”

“Duh. What other kind is worth making yourself?”

"Good point."

Which is how he finds himself crunching on popcorn with some low-budget monstrosity from the seventies that Jack managed to dredge up on the internet playing in the background. Jack's pulled him in to lean on his shoulder, and he's close enough that he can smell his fruity shampoo.

"You planned this, didn't you?" 

Jack makes a small questioning noise. "What do you mean?"

"The jacket you're wearing is years old and you've never worn it to a date ever, you're not wearing cologne, your makeup isn’t loud enough--"

"Okay, I get it," he cuts him off, voice thin. "I just-- needed to talk to you, that's all."

"And here I thought for a moment, you were just being nice," he jokes.

"Damian, I'm worried about you." 

The tremble threatening to break his voice takes every joke he had ready out of the equation. "Why?" He already knows. Of course Jack would pick up on his misery even with the wonders of a new boyfriend and readily available sex there to distract him.

"You just seem… quiet. And off. I know I haven't been around as much lately, but Tyrone told me they're worried about you, too, and--" he makes a small, frustrated noise. "I guess I just want to know if you're okay."

"I'm fine," he mumbles, slumping a little more into Jack's shoulder. 

They're both quiet for a while. "Okay. I just want you to know that you can tell me anything. In case you're ever not."

"I know," he says, even though he won't do it.

He wishes he could tell Jack anything, and the hollowness digs deeper into him. It feels like it's going to consume his entire soul if it keeps going at this rate. He's sorted out it's connected to Jack, but that's about it. He'd chalk it up to loneliness, but he's been lonely before, and this isn't it.

No, this is an awful, inescapable feeling in his chest, a sense of something being wrong and not knowing what-- a feeling he hasn't had since he and Jack dated in their late teens. It took him over a year to sort out that it was because he was aromantic. 

The idea of having to deal with it for so long again makes dread twist in his stomach. It may even take longer this time. Last time he had Doris to talk things out with. It helps him to think out loud at someone. But Doris was an old lady then and died years ago, and he doesn’t have any friends besides Jack that he’s willing to spill about a crisis to, and he can’t to Jack. Even if he says he can tell him anything.

Jack waits for a while. Sighs. “Right. Okay.”

“Saying I can tell you doesn’t mean I have to.”

“I know,” he says, and he sounds miserable. “I’m just--”

“Worried?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He’s not actually sure that’s true, but it comes out confidently enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	3. A Fight, Business Talk, and a First Meeting

Damian knows Jack’s still worried, because he sees more of him than he has since he started dating Jonathan. Not that he minds. It helps take the edge off his problem, oddly enough. 

It’s late morning and snowing outside. Jack’s not wearing much more than a baggy hoodie as he stares at the table, still groggy. It was a surprise to see him shuffle out; he and Jonathan had a date last night. 

It looks like they got pretty racy, too. Jack doesn’t have his makeup on yet, and plenty of fresh hickeys are glaringly visible on his bare skin.

“You realize the reason I make coffee is for you to drink it, right?” He jokes with him, already setting a mug full of the stuff in front of him.

“You’ll bring it to me if I wait long enough,” he mumbles, already grabbing it.

He gets his second cup himself, but it’s not doing what it’s supposed to. He can usually see him rise from the dead once caffeine gets in his system. But he looks miserable, staring blankly into the empty mug after he drains it.

It’s hardly difficult to guess. “I take it last night didn’t go too well?” 

He lets out a dry laugh. “That’s the thing, though. We got dinner, went to his place, had some fantastic sex. It was great, and then it went downhill.”

“And that was because…”

He lets out a small groan and buries his head in his hands. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go at all.”

“Hey, man,” he gets up from his spot across the table to pull up a chair next to him, “it’s not like you plan how your first fight is gonna go.”

“No, that’s not it.”

His brow furrows. “Then what?”

Jack looks at him with an expression that almost looks nervous. Looks down. Plays with the cheap copper bracelet that Damian got him for their anniversary years ago, before he came out. He must have left it on for a while, because the skin is stained underneath it. “I’m tired, Damian,” he admits quietly.

“Anemia again?” he guesses, though he doubts that’s even remotely what he means. Still, it coaxes a weak laugh out of him.

“No, iron levels are fine. I’m taking my supplements. This is a different tired.”

He gives Jack a long, hard look. Not that he can see it, because he’s still focused on the table. “If Jonathan did anything to you, I'll  _ try _ not to murder him unless you want me to.”

“Damian Hart, you are absolutely awful,” he snaps, but there’s no bite to it and he’s smiling as he shakes his head. “I just-- okay, don’t interrupt me.” He leans back, pushing his chair so it’s balancing on two legs. 

“It feels like so much of what I do is just… regurgitated garbage. I come in, some rich person calls me, I meet them because they’re offering an exorbitant amount of money,” he says, counting off the things on his fingers. “Then they tell me what they want me to do, to a canvas I didn’t pick out in the first place, and I either do it or run the risk of tanking our brainchild. And they’re unpleasant to me some of the time, usually downright rude to you, and I just-- I feel so exhausted. I hold myself over thinking about the stuff that we pick out, but it’s so long between those projects. Nothing against you, I know you work harder than I probably ever will, but--”

“Hey--” Damian’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline-- “what gives you that idea?”

Jack frowns at him. “What happened to don’t interrupt me?”

“Where did the idea that I work harder than you come from? You’re the one who’s slept in the shop before,” he insists, not willing to drop it yet.

“And you’re the one who almost bled to death in the shop once.” It’s sharp and irritated this time, and he blinks in surprise. “You work  _ hard _ , Dami. And all I do is run around with cans of goddamn spray paint, and I’m still complaining about it.”

It’s so ridiculous that he can’t even process it immediately. “That’s the most absolutely bullshit thing to come out of your mouth,” he says flatly. “You’re the one that makes what we’re doing possible, you idiot. You could replace me with any other human being who likes to fix old junk and it wouldn’t make any difference. Do you seriously think the same would be true for you? Because it’s your name and art on those things that makes people throw their money at them.”

Jack stares at him as if he’s dropped the meaning of the universe. He keeps going. “You want to quit taking the bastard commissions? Stop them. We were making ends meet without them before.”

“Barely.”

“We have savings now, and a bigger client base, and our restored cars are worth more than they used to be. Hell, you could probably sell traditional art for a decent amount now if you wanted to. Push comes to shove, you can move in with Jonathan and I’ll live in the shop. We’ll get by.”

Jack’s still staring at him with some kind of starstruck expression that he isn’t sure how to interpret. “Even if I did leave you like that, which wouldn't happen, Chris wouldn't let it last long.”

“I-- okay, yeah, that’s fair,” he agrees. Grant it, Chris would have to  _ find out _ first, which could be difficult with how often they actually get to talk to each other these days, but he has no doubt that he’d get dragged kicking and screaming back to Chris’ place if word got to him he was homeless. “Kinda beyond the point, though.” 

Jack shrugs and fiddles with his mug. “Jonathan said I was being ridiculous.” 

He has to consciously make an effort not to start disliking Jonathan immediately. “That was the fight, huh?”

A nod.

“So you told him before you told me?”

Jack makes a face at that, and the chair returns to its proper alignment of all four legs on the floor with a solid thud as he leans forward. “I just wanted a second opinion before actually bringing it up to you, you know? It feels selfish.”

“Ah,” he says, mind going back to his internal debate over whether to bring his entire emotional weirdness up to his therapist at his next appointment. He’s leaning against it for now, but if things keep up for too long he’ll probably end up cracking. “Yeah, that thought process checks out.”

“Maybe I’ll just cut back for now and see how that goes. I think quitting cold turkey would stress me out more than I already am about this.”

“Sure. I’ll let Tyrone know when I go in tomorrow morning to get you if there’s any calls about custom paints.” He gets up, taking Jack’s mug with him to the coffee machine and pouring him more.

“I’m already awake,” he tries to argue.

“As if that ever stops you from drinking this garbage. Besides--” he cracks a grin as he pops open the fridge and gets the pumpkin spice creamer-- “it sounds like you’ve had a rough time. Might as well have a treat.”

Jack leans his chin onto the palm of his hand, gaze centered on the bottle. “When did that get there? I thought I drank it all.”

“I bought it. Last one of the year, too. The Christmas takeover is here.”

Jack smiles. His complexion is splotchy and his hair is a mess, and he looks even happier than he did when he realized his relationship with Jonathan had lasted over two weeks. “Oh, Damian. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

“Nothing. It’s probably just the bonds of mutual trauma from human experimentation that made us stick together.” He shrugs and turns his attention back to making Jack’s coffee. He usually drinks it black, but when pumpkin spice is involved, so is an ungodly amount of flavored creamer. 

Jack’s laugh is sharp and loud, and things go back to normal.

* * *

It occurs to Damian, as he's standing in front of him, that he's never actually seen Jonathan before except for the grindr profile picture Jack showed him. He's nice on the eyes-- tall, dark, and handsome would be the cliche but accurate way to describe him. 

Then again, he's barely over five feet tall. Almost everyone's tall to him. 

Jonathan smiles. It's a quiet, slightly lopsided thing that still manages to show off perfect, brilliantly white teeth and crinkle his eyes. The beginnings of smile lines show up, too, and it's easy for him to see how Jack would want Jonathan around, even if it is for something as superficial as appearance.

"I'm coming, Baby. Dami, stall him for me!" Jack's muffled call manages to get to the doorway, followed by a loud clatter and a string of curses that would have made Doris threaten to wash his mouth with soap. 

He rolls his eyes and steps back to let him inside. "You might as well get out of the cold for a while. Last I saw him, your other half was swearing at a pair of fishnets he hasn't tried to fit into in five years. It might be a while."

Jonathan makes a sound between a sigh and a moan. "That sounds like an adventure to try to get off later."

"Your problem, not mine."

He chuckles and shrugs off his coat. He looks classier than he expected, for some reason. Maybe because the idea of Jack being compatible with someone who fit into such a closed box like classy never occurred to him, maybe because he's inferred more than he needs to know about his and Jack's adventurous sex life over the months, but probably a bit of both.

They head into the kitchen. Jonathan eyes everything curiously and pauses as Puppy scurries around his ankles to sniff him. 

"Oh, so this is the famed center of Jack's universe." He picks him up by the midsection, and Damian has to keep himself from swatting him away protectively. Puppy's old now and, while he probably isn't as fragile as he thinks, he doesn't like strangers to hold him. It took Tyrone over a month of working there before he let them pick him up.

Still, he tucks a content Puppy under his arm like it's second nature and pats his head. "My ex has a dog that looks a lot like this. With a few extra body parts, naturally, because he got her from a breeder, but that's besides the point. They're wonderful animals, dogs."

He's sure it's just him being prickly, since Jack's dropped people on the spot for actually insulting Puppy, but he can't help but bristle. "He's a good dog, yeah."

"Damian Hart, I told you to stall him, not let him into the house while I'm half-naked." Jack sweeps into the kitchen like a hurricane, suitcase dragging behind him in one hand and putting lipstick on in the other. His torn jeans show off the fishnets underneath, and it's paired with a baggy, off the shoulder sweater.

Jonathan's eyes work their way up and down him shamelessly. "You look good for someone who's about to take an eight hour flight." 

Jack gives him a coy look. "You say that as if we aren't going to screw once we get to the hotel."

He sighs and rolls his head lazily. "You're insatiable," he says, as if he hadn't been openly ogling him two seconds ago.

"No worse than you," he shoots back, puts his lipstick in his pocket, and takes Puppy out of Jonathan's hands. "Now you be good, my dearest baby." He bops Puppy on the nose with his finger. "Daddy's going to be gone for a week. Jonathan's taking him on a very nice vacation."

Damian doesn't have the heart to argue that Puppy isn't his baby.

"It's not a vacation. It's for a job and I'm allowed to bring a plus one."

"Yes, but it's in California, and it's warm there," he argues and gives Puppy a final kiss before handing him off to Damian.

The next thing he knows, Jack's outside with Jonathan's arm around him, bundled up against the winter cold and waving goodbye. The image seems to linger for a moment, flash-frozen in his brain before Jonathan closes the door.

The wrongness comes back full force not long after. When Jack texts him that they made it to the hotel that night, he texts back a teasing comment about how much cleaner the house is already, even though the dishes are still in the sink. He doesn't read it, anyways.

This is ridiculous. It needs to stop.

A few days later, he has an appointment with his therapist. It’s probably the most uncomfortable session he’s had in over a year, which is why he's put off talking about it for so long, but he spills about Jack, Jonathan, the returning wrongness-- all of it. It takes a while. But at least he feels a little better, just getting it out.

Liv blinks at him, probably calculating how much more they can do when he’s used almost all of his appointment time to vent about a problem he thought he’d never have to deal with again and has been actively trying to ignore for an embarrassingly long time. She’s a sharp woman, both in personality and appearance. Her face is practically a collection of pointed angles, and the geometric designs she wears makes it stand out more. He’s also half convinced she can read minds, but they get along well enough that he’s okay with the potential intrusion.

“It sounds like there’s been a lot more going on than you’ve led on for a while,” she finally says.

The only reason he doesn’t deflate and sink even farther into her overstuffed couch is because he hit his maximum couch depth about fifteen minutes ago. “I didn’t feel like bringing it up then.”

“Stubborn as always,” she says with an amused huff. “Well, I don’t think we have enough time to try to sort through all of this together. Do you want me to give you some ideas you can mull over, or just pick this up next session?”

“Give me something to do, chief. You know I get stir-crazy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	4. Jack Has a Very Bad Day

Damian thinks diligently. If there’s anyone who can still boss him around, it’s Liv, so her telling him to think about how he envisioned his future means that that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

It’s weird, though. He has more of an idea for the future than he used to, but it seems to be fuzzy compared to what he figures everyone else has. Then again, he’s had his entire life turned upside down, multiple near-death experiences, and a health situation shaky enough that for a while nobody knew if he’d even make it to his mid-twenties. And while all that was happening, he also practically had to learn how to think for himself from scratch. 

None of that’s led to him thinking very far down the road, and the best image he’s ever really had isn’t from long ago, barely before Jack and Jonathan got together. It’s basically just a perpetuation of life with Jack as it was then. That conclusion is easy.

The repercussions are hard. 

There’s little to do about them except get over it, though. He can hardly force Jack to stay with him forever. So he tries to continue on as normal, the feeling still there but making him feel a little less like the world’s ending. Even if he can’t make it go away, knowing why it’s there still helps.

When he calls to set up his appointment up for next month, he tells the receptionist to let Liv know that she should be less obvious about her mind reading powers. It makes her laugh, but she says she’ll do it. 

Then he washes the dishes. There's less of them than normal and it does little to help.

He puts a sweater on Puppy (decorated with snowflakes, one of the few that Jack didn't pick out) and they walk to the park. Puppy loves the snow, even if he's small enough to get stuck in it if left unsupervised.

When they get home, he goes nuts, wiggling and sniffing excitedly enough that it’s difficult to get the sweater off of him.

“Hold still, you crazy thing,” he scolds him gently as he almost drops him. He doesn’t listen.

When he finally lets him go, Puppy makes a beeline inside, tail wagging like crazy. It’s easy to see why, once he gets to the kitchen. 

Jack’s luggage is in the middle of the kitchen floor. He didn’t pack much-- for him, anyways, just one suitcase-- but he doesn’t even want to think about how much it must weigh. There’s an empty box of cigarettes on the table, along what was probably a new one’s wrapper.

Puppy starts crying from the sliding door, and he sighs.

Their home isn’t massive by any stretch of the imagination, though it looks bigger on the outside with the attached garage. Jack’s done most of the decorating, but it’s the eclectic, controlled chaos version of him that collects things he likes like a magpie, not his professional, selling art pieces on cars one. The result is bright and cozy and almost reminds him of an eccentric grandma’s home. At least, what he imagines an eccentric grandma’s home would look like. He’s never had a grandma, eccentric or otherwise, unless Doris counts.

It’s only a turn around the corner to the sliding door in the back of the house. It leads to a small porch that Jack covers in chalk when he’s bored and the weather’s nice. It’s also where he goes to smoke.

He’s a mess. That’s what sticks out the most. His makeup, hair, and clothes are all things he wouldn’t under normal circumstances be caught dead in, and seeing all three together is… concerning, to say the least.

He glances up, and there’s smudged remnants of dark makeup underneath his eyes. “Dami-- uh, hi,” he says awkwardly and forces out a smile that almost doesn’t look horrified that he’s been caught smoking after coming home unexpectedly early from a vacation with his boyfriend. 

He scoops Puppy up and pulls open the door. Cold air and the smell of cigarettes greets his lungs.

Jack blocks the door in a panic. “No, no, no-- it’s cold and I’ve been chain smoking and--”

“I’m coming out. Move over.”

“You’re asthmatic!”

“And my best friend broke his two year no-smoking streak and looks like complete shit.”

Jack reels back. Blinks. Damian hopes he doesn’t start to cry. He’s going to cry, he knows that, but that doesn’t mean it has to be because of something he said. It’s one thing if Jack cries because of something outside his control, and entirely another if he does because he failed human interaction at a critical moment.

“At least get a coat, okay?” he asks. His voice is wobbly, but no tears.

He closes Puppy into his room before getting his coat. Jack’s leaning heavily over the railing with his back to the door when he steps out. Smoke coils around him, and it’s easy to imagine ghostly shapes in it.

“Please don’t get an asthma attack and die. I’m nowhere near emotionally equipped to deal with that right now.” His voice sounds lifeless, and he stares hollowly into space as he stands next to him.

“My inhaler’s in my pocket.”

“That’s good.” He takes another long drag and lets it out slow. The smoke frames his face in a way that would look hypnotic if it wasn’t horrid. “Jonathan’s an ass.”

There are a concerning number of ways things could go wrong while alone with someone on the opposite side of the country. “Anything you want to press charges over?”

“No,” he rushes, and there’s a faint huff that almost sounds amused. “God, no. Nothing like that. You and your worst-case scenarios.”

They were literally experimented on by a money-crazed lunatic as kids and Jack's had a couple dates go disastrously wrong already. It’s not as if it’s hard to tell that worst-case scenarios like them, but he doesn’t bring that up. “So, what happened?”

Jack lets out a sharp noise and shakes his head. “His husband,” he practically spits out the word, “came for a surprise visit, found out about his gig, and showed up at the hotel.”

Under normal circumstances, Damian would probably say something, but he’s too shocked at the concept of Jonathan being married and Jack’s already going into full-blown angry rant mode anyways.

“ _ Apparently _ he’s some trilingual business hotshot that’s abroad half the time. Which, really, I should have figured that he had a sugar daddy, but he told me that he’d inherited money and I fucking believed it--” his voice breaks and he wipes at his eyes.

“Wow. He really is an ass.”

“A side ho, Damian. I’ve been reduced to being a  _ side ho _ ! Me! He showed up while we were  _ fucking _ !”

He’s seen Jack break down enough to know that he’ll initiate contact if he wants it, so he stays put. Although the longer he watches him cry, shoulders shaking as he tries to keep things at a reasonable volume, it gets harder not to offer to beat the shit out of Jonathan for him. Or burn his house down. Or at least total his car.

At least he can’t smoke and cry at the same time.

He’s not sure how long it is before he pulls himself into something that would look like together if every breath he took wasn’t painfully controlled. “Jesus, this is pathetic.”

“No, it’s not. You really liked Jonathan.”

“I did. I almost thought that, maybe--” he stops himself, breath hitching for a moment before getting forced down by a freakishly long drag. Afterwords, he laughs. It’s watery and pathetic and has no humor in it whatsoever. “I can’t even pull the ‘if we’re still single by the time we’re thirty, we should just marry each other so we don’t die alone’ card because you’re aromantic.”

It’s an innocuous thing coming from Jack, but his hands fly over his mouth, eyes wide and glittering with unshed tears as they stare out into the yard. Slowly, almost fearfully, they turn to look at him instead. It’s the first time he’s looked at him since he started to cry, and it’s too reminiscent of how stricken he looked when Damian came out. He half expects him to ask if he’d like to break up again.

Really, Jack handled his significant other dumping him on grounds of romantic orientation with no warning like a champ, but that didn’t stop him from knowing that he was hurt. They got through it, obviously, since they live together and he’s trying to console Jack about his now ex-boyfriend being a cheating asshole, but he still feels guilty, especially with the relief he’s feeling that the cause of his problems is gone for the time being. There shouldn’t be a benefit to someone hurting Jack. Ever. 

And yet he sees one. He looks down at the snow on the stairs of the porch.

“Oh God, Damian, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out like-- I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so--”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he argues. “Just because I’m falling apart doesn’t mean I get to be an asshole.”

He looks up. Most of Jack’s grief is covered with anxiety, but he still looks as if he’s about to start sobbing at the drop of a hat. “Dude, it’s fine. I know you well enough to know that you cracking a joke isn’t malicious.”

He blinks. Slumps back over the railing. “Yeah, it was a joke. Glad you got that.” It doesn’t sound as relieved as it should.

It’s quiet again long enough for the sun to set. The cold's settling into his bones and making his face hurt. “You should get inside. It’s freezing.”

“I can’t smoke inside.”

“I’m not letting you get hypothermia just so you can keep trying to give yourself lung cancer.”

Jack takes another drag and lets out one more sigh, smoke twisting around him in some wretched dance that shouldn’t be as captivating as it is. 

And then cigarette butt is squashed into the snow and he turns towards the door.

They end up at the table, Jack staring at the box of cigarettes with a desperation he hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Can I just… throw those out?”

He glances up at him. Shrugs. “I might dig them out later if you do.”

“Dude, that’s gross.”

“Addictions aren’t pretty.”

He sighs. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“You can still toss them if it’ll help you feel better.”

He does. “So, not to bring up any more bad feelings than necessary,” he starts, turning around to lean on the counter, “but why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming home? Or text? That’s not like you.”

“Oh, um. Right,  _ that _ ,” he says it in a way that makes Damian’s stomach try to twist into a knot. “I was… impressively upset, and the entire situation blew up so fast that I-- it’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you, because God, did I need someone to talk to, but I was upset and his husband was pissed and he was trying to blame me for everything and I just needed to get out. I didn’t realize I forgot my phone until I was gone, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to go back into that hornet’s nest for it.”

“Wait, then how the hell did you get home?”

“We were in an older part of town and passed a library on the way in. I walked there, bought tickets home and then got a taxi to the airport. I had my wallet, at least.”

“Right, okay," he says, trying to sort through how this went, “so, how much of your stuff does he have?”

“A lot.” He lays his face on the table with a groan. “I basically threw clothes on and ran. He’s got almost all the clothes I packed. And my makeup. And my fucking expensive drawing tablet. I still have some lingerie that I didn’t even unpack because it was  _ supposed _ to be a birthday-slash-early Valentine’s Day present for tonight, but like hell if that does me any good now--”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see what we can get back, okay?”

Jack just buries his head in his arms with a strained noise. “Can you get those cigarettes back out for me?”

“No.”

“Bastard, why do you have to look out for me?" He gets up, wiping at his eyes again and seeming to want to look anywhere but at him. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	5. TALK???? About FEELINGS??? Witchcraft

Jack is smoking a lot.

That’s not the only red flag telling Damian he’s doing worse than he lets on, but it’s the one that affects him the most. He tries not to get after him too much about it, he knows that addictions aren’t easy to quit, but it’s hard on his lungs. Of all the things he had to be bad at, it just had to be breathing. Damned asthma. At least he always smokes on the back porch and takes a shower afterwards, although part of him doesn’t even want to think about the upcoming water bill if this keeps up. He takes long showers, especially when he’s trying to get cigarette fumes off of himself. 

At least it gives Damian time to work. It’s been a week since the entire fiasco, and the landmark seems to have made him spiral from bad to worse. Jonathan’s lucky that Jack’s been too clingy for him to be able to give him hell.

He’s never been as good as making popcorn on the stove as Jack, but he tries. The candy cane hot chocolate will probably make up for it, and if it doesn’t the last resort offering of candy corn will. He’s not sure if Jack’s going to want to watch something ridiculous, nostalgic, or both. The go-to of making fun of soap operas seems to be a poor choice, given the sheer number of romance and cheating driven plots, so he makes a tentative list of bad movies and shows not circling around romance that they can make fun of.

When Jack comes back, he bypasses all of it to latch his arms around his torso and pulls him backwards into his chest.

“Hi.” He tries to contort an arm to somewhat return the gesture. It only half-works, with the way they’ve been roped into Jack’s grip already. The pink, polka dotted towel wrapped around his head falls over his shoulder and floods his nose with some unidentifiable-but-fruity smell. “Your hair smells good.”

He gets a whining noise and squeezed tighter as an answer.

“I was going to offer you popcorn before bringing out the real stress food, but this is a candy corn kind of situation isn’t it?”

“Get it for me?”

“Sure.”

Jack’s curled into the corner of the couch when he comes back. The absolutely betrayed look that he gets when he hands him a bowl of the disgusting little triangles would be precious if not for the fact that Jack’s miserable. “What is this?”

He plops down next to him with no intention of getting back up. “A bowl of candy corn.”

“We have more than this.”

“And you’ll make yourself sick if I give you the entire bag.”

He isn’t met with an argument. An unholy amount of whining, yes, but no argument. He probably knows better than to try to so blatantly lie about something Damian’s seen him do countless times, including twice this week.

Not holding back Jack’s hair while his face is in the toilet is nice, although it’s replaced by Jack staring blankly into the empty purple bowl, which still isn't great. One finger absently traces over the edge in a slow, continuous circle. 

His nails are pink and orange. They’re starting to chip, but still look nice. He almost never paints his nails, but Damian’s always liked the look of it. If his hands were anywhere near presentable enough to draw attention to, he’d probably ask Jack to paint his, or maybe even try to do it himself. But, stained and calloused as they are, it’d just look ridiculous on him. 

The silence stretches. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks. It’s more a distraction from the unnaturally still, hollow Jack than actually thinking it would help.

“No.”

“Popcorn?”

“No.”

“Cocoa?”

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. Stops tracing the bowl. Blinks a few times, bites his lip, then starts again. “I’m going to die alone.”

“No, you won’t.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “You’ll find somebody else eventually, out of sheer probability if nothing else. And, even if you don’t, I’m cool with marrying you instead. It’d be good for tax benefits.”

The finger stops again, and Jack actually moves-- turns to give him a look he’s not entirely sure how to read. It’s only there for a moment, though, before he shakes his head and looks away. “No, I… I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Do what to me?”

“Make you marry me.”

“I’m literally the one who just offered.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not uncomfortable. We’re already pretty close to married, if you look at things objectively.” The banter is off, but it’s filling the quiet, so might as well let it take its course. What’s the worst that can happen?

“No, but I-- never mind. Forget it.” He scooches away and curls into himself a little more. 

Something’s wrong-- well, more wrong than before-- but he’s not sure what to do about it, so they sit there together. Jack looks as if he’s about to break apart at the seams, and that’s never a good sign, but trying to coax him into talking about something he doesn’t want to is a near-impossible tightrope walk over hellfire.

He doesn’t end up having to decide if it’s worth initiating, though, because Jack decides for him. “If I tell you something horrible, will you try not to be mad?”

“If it’s about Jonathan, no promises.”

He laughs a little. “No, I know you’re already mad at him. This is about me.”

He’s pretty sure he won’t be mad if Jack tells him anything short of confessing to being a serial killer and having a secret collection of human organs in his closet. Even then, if the plan is adding Jonathan’s organs to the collection, he might agree to help out. “Dude, I already have so much dirt on you. What’s one more thing?”

He makes a small noise that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be amused but almost sounds scared. Puts down the bowl, runs his thumb over his nails. Picks it back up. "I love you, Damian."

"Oh." He should probably say more than that, but he's not sure what. Or even what he's supposed to do with that information at all. 

At least he's not mad. But Jack seems to have taken this as an invitation to rant and he never shies away once he starts.

"I know it's a dick move, and I'm sorry. I swear I tried so hard to stop-- everything I could think of. And sometimes it'd fade but _something_ would always bring it back, and then finally one time my frantic attempts to fuck you out of my head actually landed me with someone who I was close enough to in love with that I thought it had a chance, except that he's a cheating, married asshat and I'm really upset about the entire thing. Because I've been trying to get rid of stupid feelings for years and had nobody to talk to until right now, except for Chris when I can get him-- poor bastard. He's had to listen to a lot. But now I just told you. And that's probably incredibly uncomfortable. I know you're not interested, but I can't get my bitch ass to understand that I need to stop loving you and fall in love with someone else and I need someone to talk to and I’m so _sorry._ "

It takes him a moment to process the sheer quantity of words. The silence stretches into something tense and horrible in the meantime. Jack leans farther over the arm of the couch, and the sound of shifting fabric is enough to almost make him wince. His breathing is meticulously slow and level, but it can’t hide the fresh streaks of tears on his cheeks.

"It's not uncomfortable." It's a little late for that to be believable now, and nowhere near what he wants to say with his brain threatening to burst from everything that's spinning inside it, but it's not his fault that he processes information slowly.

Jack makes a disbelieving noise. "We literally broke up because it was uncomfortable."

He groans, and wishes that he'd brought in a bowl of popcorn for himself. At least then he'd have something to do with his hands. This entire mess is complicated beyond belief. "That's… different." 

He probably doesn't need to try to explain it, but he does anyways. "It wasn't that I didn't like dating you. Parts of it were fun. I just-- when I figured out I didn't love you how you wanted me to, it scared me. And by the time I figured myself out enough to realize I was okay with the idea of taking another swing at things, you seemed over it."

Jack lets out a dry chuckle. "I can promise you I wasn't, but that's okay."

"It happened while you were still with Jonathan," he said flatly. “You seemed pretty damn over it.”

Jack stares at him. Not really sure what else to do, he stares back. It’s awkward. “Yeah, okay, that was a good talk, I guess--”

“You’re aro.”

“Yes?” he drags the word out, brow furrowing. At least Jack’s not practically trying to hide in the couch anymore. “Why?”

“But you would date me? Am I reading this right? I feel like I’m not.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s _dating_. I’ll never love you however the hell I’m probably supposed to for that, but you’re the closest I’m probably going to get and life without you here feels really weird and wrong, so… I guess I’d kinda date you?”

The corner of his mouth tilts down with a hum. “So, what are we talking about here? Friends with benefits?”

“Maybe?” He rubs the back of his head. “Like, I’m aro, not ace so the benefits part sounds good… that just doesn’t really sound great though. It’s more like-- like we exist together and you’re in love with me and I’m not in love with you, and we’d both be okay with that.”

Jack sets his chin on his knees, and Damian can practically see the gears turning inside his head. “Dude, it’s okay if you don’t get it. You might hurt yourself thinking too hard.”

“But I _want_ to get it. I can't agree to it if I don't get it.”

“God, you’re so stubborn.” He flops back into the couch cushions and rubs his temples. Really, wanting to get it is probably a good sign, but trying to communicate aromantic ideas has never been his strong suit, and understanding them isn’t Jack’s. He has a bad feeling this is going to end up like a parrot that knows three words trying to explain algebra to a wall. 

“Okay,” he tries anyways, “you remember when we were dating? That’s all fine. Farther than that is fine. I literally couldn’t figure out my romantic orientation for forever because kissing is fun as hell and you’re hot. Literally all I would want different is for you to know that I _don’t_ love you like you love me, and for me to know that’s okay because you don’t expect me to.”

Jack blinks. “So, if I were to say that’s all fine and we started doing… whatever you want to call that--”

“The word would probably be queerplatonic, if you want to get technical.”

“--would you want to make out?”

He rolls his eyes and grabs Jack by the wrist. “Did you hear nothing about what I just said about kissing being fun as hell?”

That’s all the encouragement Jack needs to practically pounce on top of him. It’s been a long time since he’s kissed him, but damn he remembers how. Their lips slot together naturally, Jack sending them straight into something that’s intense and messy and shouldn’t be nearly as good as it is.

Jack shifts on his lap and his hands go to his hair. It’s not nearly as long as it was last time they did this, but he hasn’t gotten it trimmed in a while, either, and he gets enough of a grip on it to pull his head back, giving him a clear path to start peppering his jaw and neck with kisses.

He practically melts into it, eyes half-lidded. “You still remember what I like, huh?”

Jack barely stops long enough to purr out a low “of course I do, Dami,” before mouthing a particularly sweet by his ear, as if he needs to prove it more than he already has.

And then there’s a familiar jingle of dog tags as Puppy jumps on the couch and everything freezes. Jack stares at him with an absolutely horrified expression as Puppy looks back blanky. Apparently, if he even has any idea that he’s interrupting something, he doesn’t care.

Jack snaps out of it and frowns. “Really, Dog?”

“Don’t get mad at him.”

“Ugh--” he rolls his eyes as he clambers off of him-- “I’m not, but _how_ am I supposed to do this while he’s watching?”

He snorts and gets up. “You know bedrooms have doors, right?”

He blinks. “That’s not too fast for you?”

“Not if it isn’t for you.”

* * *

Jack’s bed is a death trap. He wakes up covered in sweat and feeling like he hasn't had water in a week.

He flips the covers off from over his shoulders with his free arm, and the cool air on his skin is like heaven. Theoretically, he knew last night that Jack gets cold easily and sleeps with three blankets in the winter, and he should've figured an additional person's body heat would just make things worse. But no, he was too busy passing out as Jack spooned him, and now he's trapped in a sauna, Jack's sleeping form still snuggled close to him in a way that's borderline suffocating.

He tries to gently untangle himself from Jack's long limbs. Their skin is stuck together and it feels beyond disgusting to peel apart. But he needs to get out so he can drink half of the city's water supply. And then take a cold shower with the rest. Or just desperately try to hydrate himself by drinking cold water from the shower while he’s in it. Or maybe he could spare their water bill from any more damage by throwing himself in a snowbank…

He's almost free when Jack stirs with a drowsy noise, loops his arms back around him, and pulls him down again. 

"Really, Jack?" He mutters, starting the process over.

At least, he tries to. Jack's grip tightens. "Stay," he mumbles against the back of his neck, lips grazing his skin in a way that would make him shiver if he did it last night. But this isn't last night, their combined trapped body heat is trying to kill him, and he doesn't think he's been this sweaty since going through arrangement withdrawal symptoms. How Jack can even stand to touch him at all is beyond him.

"No." He tries again, and Jack relents, pulling the covers back over his shoulders as soon as he's escaped.

"It's early, Dami, come back." It's weak and pitiful and morning-slurred to the point of nearly incomprehensible.

A quick glance at his phone tells him it's not early for him. He'd probably sleep later under conditions that weren't trying to roast him to death just because they'd kept each other up so late, but it isn't early. "I'd rather not overheat and die." 

He ignores the sad noise Jack makes as he picks his clothes off the floor. Puppy needs to be walked, and-- _oh shit Puppy was alone all night_.

He finds him asleep on the couch, seemingly unperturbed. That’s good, at least.

He’s halfway through getting coffee ready when Jack comes out. There's a blanket draped over him instead of clothes, loosely held in place with one hand as the other rubs his eye. “I told you he’d be fine.”

"I thought you said it was too early."

"You got up."

He lets out an amused huff and shakes his head. "Well, don't worry about that being a recurring issue because we are _not_ sharing a bed again. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to kill me."

"Oh." He seems to sag a bit. "Would it help if I took a blanket off?”

He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to sleep comfortably unless he takes off two, but he doesn’t say so. There’s another piece of the puzzle that’ll dissuade Jack more. “I’m not permanently sharing a bed unless you let Puppy sleep on it, too.”

Jack groans and shuffles to the table. “That’s a hard bargain, Hart.”

“I know. That’s why I said it.”

" _How_ are we supposed to have sex with an audience? I'm not that kinky."

* * *

It’s about a month before either of them hear from Chris.

**So, can I still fuck Jonathan up or did you take care of that already?**

Damian lets out an amused huff. **Looks like someone finally looked at his phone**

**Haha, very funny. Jonathan. Did you kill him or not?**

**Nah, Jack was being way too clingy for me to do much. It all worked out, anyways**

**HE GOT BACK TOGETHER WITH THAT PIECE OF SHIT?**

Oops. That’s a miscommunication for the books. Jack starts cackling from the couch a few seconds later. “Dami, why does Chris think I’m back with Jonathan?”

“Because I told him that I didn’t beat Jonathan up because everything worked out,” he calls back.

Apparently, that’s even funnier because the cackling gets worse. “Oh my _god_ \-- okay, I’ll rectify this situation.”

“Have fun.” 

Two seconds later, Chris is in their group chat.

**WAIT YOU TWO ARE SCREWING??????**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, that's all I got. Thanks for reading, it's been fun <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I did this for nanowrimo and decided to post it.


End file.
